


variety speak

by orphan_account



Category: Joker (2019)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-11
Updated: 2019-10-13
Packaged: 2020-12-09 00:30:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20985833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Arthur starts laughing when Murray first kisses him.





	1. Chapter 1

Arthur starts laughing when Murray first kisses him.

"Something funny, kid?" Murray asks, clearly unamused, probably hurt but too professional to show it. "I've had women laugh at me before, but my dick is usually out at that point."

"I - I thought that you didn't - didn't go in for that - that sort of humor," Arthur says through giggles. His mouth is smiling, but he's holding himself with an obvious, almost vibrating tension, and his eyes are shiny-wet in distress. "You know, I - I always appreciated your clean - clean jokes," he adds, just to fill the silence with something besides the fading sound of his own laughter.

"That makes one of us," Murray says. "I always thought that the studio could loosen up a bit, but, hey, it's show business, right? Gotta do what the big wigs at the network want."

Arthur smiles, small but genuine. There's greasepaint on Murray's mouth, little smears of red and white. It's a good look on him, Arthur thinks, one that no one else would - could - appreciate. "You have a little something on you," he tells Murray, and makes a motion toward his face that he quickly aborts.

"That's not the only makeup I'm wearing," Murray says. He sounds a little more amused now. "This may come as a shock to you, but they cake me in pounds of the stuff every night. These good looks aren't a hundred percent natural, unfortunately."

"I think that you'd be very handsome without it," Arthur says.

At that, Murray grabs Arthur's hand, slow so as not to spook him, and raises their intertwined fingers to Arthur's own mouth. "You've got a little something on you, too," he says, pressing his knuckles to Arthur's mouth.

Arthur parts his lips.

-

"Do you want to hear a joke, Murray?" Arthur asks. He isn't laughing anymore; rather, he's smiling, big, and a bit ghoulish - the face paint gives him the uncanny appearance of a children's illustration, sure, all bold, clashing colors and a cartoonishness about his brow, but the pull of his muscles at the ends of his lips are more prominent than anything else. He smiles like a doll come to life - he means it, with sincerity and gratitude, but he's never done it of his own accord before.

Murray gently runs a hand up Arthur's back; Arthur has him straddled in one of the dressing room chairs, and he can hear it creak every time that they move together. "Sure," he says, watching Arthur's throat move with his words.

"You won't be the first person I call 'Daddy' in bed," Arthur says, still all smiles, and Murray chuckles lowly. "I had you pegged the second I walked in," he tells Arthur, letting his hand crawl farther up his back to tangle in his long hair. "You seem like the type - no offense meant, of course," he adds. "I say, live and let live. You know, I think my nephew may even be a homosexual - "

"No offense taken," Arthur interrupts cheerily. "But I was talking about my mother's boyfriend making me suck his cock!"

"I - " Murray falters. "Jesus Christ, kid, I'm sorry. I didn't..."

Arthur wriggles in his lap. The creaking of the chair underneath them sounds ominous. "I know you didn't," he says, almost sympathetically, and leans down to burrow his face in Murray's neck. He breathes him in deep, expensive cigarettes but surprisingly cheap cologne - talk show hosts must not make enough to afford anything better than Drakkar Noir - and speaks into the skin there, just beginning to sallow with age. "That's not the punchline. The punchline is that he never fucked me in a bed." He lays a kiss there, right where Murray's pulse has just begun to speed, and asks, "Will you take me to bed after the show, Daddy?"

-

The show is a bit of a dud, if Murray is being honest with himself. He's rapidly become too aware of Arthur to in good consciousness make fun of him on live television, but the trade-off for Murray's last-minute change of heart is that he plays Arthur's stand-up tape straight, tempered only with a sort of pity that must come across to the audience as disingenuous and uncharacteristically saccharine for a show that, despite Murray's earlier complaint, does have some bite to it.

Arthur is clearly in his element, though. It helps. The audience is lukewarm at best, but Murray believes in the inherent goodness of mankind, and no one boos Arthur and his childish slapstick. The applause is mild, but, as Murray signs off with his well-worn slogan, it might as well be thunderous for as grateful as he is to be done for tonight.

Arthur is waiting for him in the dressing room. Gene slides Murray a glance that says, loudly, "I don't approve of what you're doing and am disappointed by the mistakes that you're making, but you're the boss," and Murray nods his head at him almost imperceptibly as he wraps an arm around Arthur's slim waist and congratulates him on a job well done.

-

The implicit promise of a bed has Murray feeling almost chivalrous, like Arthur is a three-dollar hooker too tired to react with anything but relief at clean sheets and a man without genital warts. In a way, he sort of is, but Murray pushes that thought to the back of his head and sternly warns it to stay there.

"Why don't you go wash your face, hm? The bathroom is to the right," Murray tells him, "and the bedroom is just down the hall here."

"But I like playing dress-up," Arthur says, almost girlishly. "I used to wear my mother's makeup, you know - and, of course, she must have known, all those little fingerprints left in her blush, the lipstick left uncapped - but she never knew about the men who fucked me even as she introduced me to them, so maybe she just wasn't a very perceptive woman."

Murray hadn't built a long and storied career in the entertainment sector by being at a loss for words, so he presses on with a sigh and a shake of his head. "You know broads," he says. "If it doesn't involve racking up thousands of dollars of debt on one of my cards, then they're not interested."

A shadow passes over Arthur's face for a moment - not dark, but gloomy. If Murray were to nose behind his ear, he'd smell earth like after rain but no hot lightening-static. "My mother was a good woman," he says, mournful and unconvincing, before shaking it off with a bounce of his shoulders that, Murray has to admit, is kind of cute. "But enough about Mommy. I want to play with you for a while, Daddy."

Murray's a man in all the ways being a man matters: he's forthright when possible but smart enough for subtlety when the situation calls for it. He's never had trouble getting women to go home with him at night, and he treats them decently but firmly when the morning comes. He's gotten to where he is today through hard work, and only a professional amount of hobnobbing. He only kissed a boy once, in the seventh grade, and sucked a few dicks at a few auditions. He is fallible, but he is a man nonetheless. He is a man, and so he does what any man would do in this situation.

"Wash your face," he says. "Or I'm turning you out on your ass, you brat."

-

Underneath the face paint, Arthur is drooping. He's a fair bit younger than Murray, still, but the bags under his eyes tell the story of a man who hasn't had a good night's sleep since he was in his mother's womb. He's stripped down to his underwear, and his hair is damp and curling at the ends, and, without the makeup, his brow is strong in a way that abruptly masculates him; despite that, he's androgynous in the way that children are, not desexed but unsexed. He looks the picture of sensuality, if sensuality was a man approaching middle age with a face like a water-damaged painting, the colors running but art as context.

"Come here," Murray tells him, sat at the side of the bed. "Let me see you."

Arthur comes to him, but he slides onto his knees, not particularly gracefully. He tilts his head up and lets Murray take it into his hands.

"You're as pretty as a picture," Murray says, quiet but firm. "Has anyone ever told you that?"

"No, Daddy," Arthur whispers. "Just you. Only you."

"Then you need to hear it again: you're beautiful, Arthur."

"Please don't, Daddy," Arthur whimpers. "I want - "

"Be quiet," Murray cuts him off. "You'll take what I give you or we're done. Finish getting undressed and lay on the bed."

"How do you want me?" Arthur asks after he stands and sheds the last of his clothing, outstretching his arms in a self-deprecatingly performative manner, as if to say, "This is me. It's not much - it's nothing at all, really - but it's me."

Murray stands, too, and loosens his tie. "On your back. I want to see your face."

Arthur does indeed make a pretty picture on Murray's bed. He's clearly trying to seduce, a leg cocked up at the knee, his half-hard cock a dark pink, dewy at the tip. He bites his bottom lip and makes eyes at Murray - first at his face, then at his groin. "Aren't you going to take your pants off?" he asks after Murray has stood there, unmoving, a beat too long not to make Arthur feel self-conscious.

"No," Murray says. "Spread your legs. I want a look at that cock."

Arthur squirms a little, unused to the sharp, focused attention of an individual, but he obeys, letting his legs fall open. Like this, Murray can take him in more fully - the wiry, sparse hair near his groin, the cleft of his bony ass. His toes are curling and uncurling in a way that's clearly not intentional, and his eyes suddenly can't seem to rest, everywhere in the room but on Murray, a little glassy like he's too far in his own head.

"Look at me," Murray snaps.

Arthur tears his eyes away from where they'd been briefly perched on the wall behind Murray, and looks at him. He can't maintain eye contact for more than a moment before looking away again. Murray sighs, full-bodied, playing up the disappointed father act that Arthur is clearly angling for, and he can see a gleam of - something - in Arthur's eyes, not happiness exactly but contentment, familiarity. Murray is by no means a sensitive man, but it makes his chest tighten just an increment.

"I'm sorry," Arthur apologizes softly. "Please don't hurt me."

"I'm not gonna hurt you," Murray reassures him, bringing a hand up to his button-up and popping the top button out just to give his hands something to do, and Arthur huffs a little. "Please don't hurt me," he repeats more insistently, his erection, which had been starting to flag a bit, almost soft, stirring awake again. "I'm sorry for disobeying you. I'm so sorry. Please don't make me put my mouth on you."

Murray feels, very suddenly, like he is being made a fool out of, like there's a joke being told that he isn't meant to laugh at. "I'm not gonna make you put your mouth on me," he says. "My beautiful boy. My pride."

Arthur throws an arm over his eyes. "No," he says, over and over again, "no, no, no - "

"Haven't I told you to be quiet once before?" Murray asks him. "I don't want to punish you, Arthur. I want to make you feel good."

"Bad little boys don't deserve to feel good," Arthur whines, frustrated. "Only good little boys do. I've been a bad little boy - "

"Cut this 'little boy' shit out," Murray says. His voice is raised, but he is careful not to yell, not to snap like he had before. "You come to me as a man or you don't come to me at all. I don't get what you're playing at, exactly, but I'm not playing along. You're here because I want you to be here."

Arthur eyes him almost warily as Murray, still mostly clothed, moves to climb on top of him, bracketing Arthur's waist with his legs. He's careful not to rest on his haunches, not to make any contact with Arthur's cock. "Put your arms around my neck," he instructs him, "and move with me."

Arthur does, though his expression is still slightly soured, and lets Murray move them both so that Arthur is back on top of him. The dressing room feels like a lifetime ago.

"What are you going to do to me?" Arthur asks once they're situated, pressing his head to Murray's chest, closing his eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

Murray has joked more than once before - the worst thing about the casting couch is never getting called back. "And I'm not talking about a second audition," Murray adds each time. It's an easy joke to make, and a bit of a defensive one, but it usually gets a laugh from everyone except Gene, who responds in straight-man fashion with a sigh and a shake of his head.

Murray knows that he won't call Arthur back. He doesn't know what to do with his hands, fluttering around Murray's waist and thighs like butterflies before settling uneasily in his lap, but his mouth is efficient in a way that makes Murray's stomach turn. He sucks cock like he was trained professionally to do so; it feels almost perfunctory, as if he's simply going through the motions, glancing at the time every so often in anticipation of clocking out. It's the worst blow job that he's ever gotten, and that includes the forty-five-year-old hooker with no teeth. At least she seemed grateful for the money afterward; Murray is afraid of encouraging, or offending, Arthur by handing him a sweaty wad of cash.

"Arthur," he says quietly, touching Arthur's cheek. He can feel his own erection through the skin there, but only barely; he's not fully hard, and he knows that Arthur knows it. How could he not, with Murray still inside of him, of course, but the look that Arthur fixes him with is one of resignation. He pulls off of Murray's cock, sucking the string of spit that connects them back into his mouth, and asks, "Yes, Murray?" polite but cold.

At some point, Arthur had taken back the reigns. Murray doesn't generally treat sex as a competition - if anything, it's a conquest - but, between Arthur resting his head on Murray's chest, looking the picture of cautious contentment, and Arthur giving Murray the most apathetic blow job of his life, he'd managed to make Murray feel - small, he supposes. Small, and a little sick. It's a wonder that he can maintain even a partial erection with Arthur's stare, before so shy, boring into him like Murray had just kicked his dog into the river.

"You're doing such a good job," Murray lies through his teeth, "but I don't want to blow before the main event, you know. I'm too old for that."

"You don't look like you mean that," Arthur responds immediately. He runs his fingertips over Murray's half-hard cock absently, which earns, to his credit, a shiver. "Am I not doing a good job, Daddy?"

Murray could make good on his threat to turn Arthur out on his ass, but the prospect is beginning to seem more and more like defeat with every passing second, and Murray doesn't intend to end the night with as an abject failure with a case of blue balls. Fine, he thinks. If Arthur wants a challenge, then Murray will give him one.

"You're doing such a good job, son," Murray tells him, touching his sweaty temple. The effect is immediate - Arthur's eyes don't grow lidded so much as they fall, his gaze gone glassy again. He returns the shiver when Murray sinks his fingers into his hair, not hard enough to hurt but firm enough to feel. "You're making me feel so good. But it's my turn to make you feel good. Say 'thank you.'"

"Thank you," Arthur echoes.

-

It doesn't feel much like victory, Murray sinking his fingers into Arthur's hole. Arthur squirms at the intrusion, Murray's fingers fat and invasive, gripping at the slim meat of Arthur's cheek with what isn't inside of him, careful not to bruise. He's fucked a few women in the ass before, but Arthur makes a poor facsimile of one, hair long and mannerisms effete but voice a shade too deep when he brushes against Arthur's prostate for the first time, his whole body stiffening, letting out a tortured little sigh that, embarrassingly, paints a bit of blush onto the highest part of Murray's chest, visible even though he never disrobed.

"Does that feel good?" Murray asks him. Arthur looks almost amused, briefly, the corners of his eyes turning upward in a mouthless smile, and then Murray brushes against his prostate again, deliberately this time, and Arthur squeezes his eyes shut, looking overwhelmed instead. "He never - " He starts and stops.

"Use your words," Murray encourages him in a gentle chide.

"He never - I mean, it was always him. It was always for him. He never asked - " he says, haltingly.

"He never asked you if it felt good?" Murray asks.

"He never cared if it felt good," Arthur replies. "To him, I was a - a hole. I was there for him when my - my mother wasn't. It didn't - I mean, it did feel good, sometimes. But it didn't matter to him one way or the other. I - I'd rather he - in my mouth, usually. I could swallow it and then I'd be done."

Murray pulls his fingers out of Arthur with a visceral pop, and Arthur sighs again, unhappily. "I didn't mean - "

Murray shushes him. "I'm gonna fuck you now," he says. "Just try to relax, alright? It'll feel better if you relax."

Arthur lets his eyes flutter shut.

-

Murray comes, but even that doesn't feel much like a victory. Arthur comes, too; that feels more cathartic than anything else, a clean and unambiguous ending to a night that has been anything but. He cries, afterward, and Murray holds him, cumbersome, limbs ungainly and inflexible. He's usually asleep by now. He offers Arthur a cigarette once the tears have begun drying, and the last flicker of heat curls down and rests at the bottom of his stomach as he lights Arthur up. Like this, the sharp angles of his jaw are more Picasso than poverty.

"You know," Arthur says in between drags, sounding curiously absent from the room, "I hadn't planned for this."

"And you think I did?" Murray cracks, trying to lighten the mood, a consummate performer.

Arthur starts laughing.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from the eponymous Animaniacs song. It felt strangely fitting.
> 
> This is the first of two fics that I started writing for /tv/ (then, after being kindly reminded that it exists, /cm/).


End file.
